


Happenstance

by protaganope



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 04:54:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16486283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protaganope/pseuds/protaganope
Summary: “You used to hate me.” James says dryly, and if satisfaction warns to unfurl in his chest when he notes Hamilton’s visible discomfort, that’s merely coincidence. “What happened?”





	Happenstance

James Madison took ill a lot. He knew this, and so liked to think he was always prepared. He wasn’t prepared, however, for the enigma that was Alexander Hamilton to become so involved with him because of this, however.  
  
“You used to hate me.” James says dryly, and if satisfaction warns to unfurl in his chest when he notes Hamilton’s visible discomfort, that’s merely coincidence. “What happened?” The man, lauded for his genius and fluency with sentences, seemed to have had the figurative carpet thrust out from beneath him, and it takes him a few painful seconds to recover.

James coughs into his sleeve, and pointedly looks at Hamilton as he flounders, twitching at James’ behaviour.   
  
“You hate me, too, that’s not fair—“ He hears the migrant stagger to collect his mile-minute thoughts, blinking fast and pupils shuttling back and forth, no doubt mentally stitching together the next paragraph of ridiculous prose that never failed to leave James more than irked.

He’d originally been drawn in by Hamilton’s ability to do so, when they’d first met. Make words, that is. It had been incredibly useful, especially as they could keep working into the night without question, carrying the other members of their lab on their backs when a topic proved challenging.

(He hadn’t questioned James’ cocktail of medications as he joined Hamilton in the library at all ungodly hours, just glanced over and told him to start revising what he had already tapped out, maybe section eighty, a sly grin appearing on his face.)

There was a reason they had partnered for important written projects; while Hamilton could write—and by God, he did, with vigour— he always happened to struggle with form. Sure, he could pick up a pen and fill as many pages as he could within a proposed schedule (with time to spare, actually) but with this particular talent came a weakness in more succinct demands. This was where someone else usually stepped in, to moderate his work, dividing his transfigured monstrosities into significantly smaller pieces, in hopes that their professors didn’t run away screaming upon catching glimpse of the word count of Hamilton’s many essays.

This was usually where Burr stepped in. Usually. Curse the man, he was currently away from work and campus, tending to something James had quickly classed as unimportant in the face of the troublesome man known as Alexander Hamilton. But either way, for a short while, the _somebody,_ happened to be himself.

James knows a lot about structure. It’s his entire life. A good chunk of his thesis regards it. Doesn’t mean he wants to help Hamilton do the same, though.

With this train of thought, James’ eyes fall on the calendar. It’s an plain, battered thing, nearing the end of its useful life as the year’s death grows noticeably closer. He wheezes as he walks over to it, and Hamilton _hovers_ , a mess of restless energy in his desire to do something pertaining to James, but not quite knowing how, for some reason.   
  
He’d threatened Hamilton the first time he’d noticed this behaviour, but it was as weak as his health, now, and both of them knew it.

Seven days. Seven days more of this.

He just had to work through this for the time being. Then things would go back to normal, and Hamilton wouldn’t keep reserving this strange attention for him alone. James has witnessed the man stress before over similar themes, pulling blankets over his friends when he had seen them dozing at their work desks in the library. He remembers the hurt look his eyes assumed when Thomas, in his genius, saw right through him, quick mind easily able to connect the dots and poke Hamilton right where it hurt, occasionally making fun of the way his concern for others manifested.

Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it?

Concern.

What James could not for the life of him fathom why, however, was how this particular emotion was being targeted at him. _Him_ , the man who used Hamilton for passing marks when his absences for classes became too much and he needed the extra credit in order to remain enrolled and progressing. The man who stood beside Thomas as he, to put it bluntly, bullied Hamilton within an inch of his life.

James was sometimes glad of Thomas’ anxiety concerning people he didn’t know, since it meant that, relatively speaking, the bullying of Hamilton remained quite tame on a physical level.

Because heaven forbid an adult or otherwise source of authority see them and hold them guilty for their actions.

James pointedly ignored the fact that he still remained wary for those dubbed “adults” when he was nineteen (going on seventy-five, as Thomas joked,) and therefore technically also one of the denominations he once swore to never truly trust.

Back to the situation at hand.

Washington had left their apartment with the vague instruction that James wasn’t to leave his room for the purpose of speeding up his recovery, but he wasn’t in the habit of listening all that often, and this was no exception. James might not be student council president, as of yet, but he’s not about to follow someone blindly simply due to something so lacking in physicality as a _warning_.

So here he was, in the kitchen, rummaging for something to eat that didn’t actually require any effort to prepare. This was a safe bet for escaping Hamilton, usually— he couldn’t cook to save his life, and one too many fire alarms during supper hours had left him, by residential vote, banned from trying without supervision. Which seemed to have embarrassed Hamilton so much that, to this day, he has never attempted it since.

James feels a little unstable on his feet today, though, and it must be visible in his manner because Hamilton has stayed within at least three meters of him since the morning began.

He hates Tuesdays.

Mondays, he can handle, he usually has had a full two days of rest from the weekend and so is able to work to the very limits of his sensibilities. Tuesdays arrive too soon and do not hold that same untapped energy which sit basically begging to be used and burnt up.

It’s Tuesday.

He calls Thomas, later that night, looking to vent his frustration at Hamilton’s mother-henning over every little symptom James showed. If he was going to do that every time, it was going to get old very quickly, and it was already. 

“I’m just glad that it’s not still like what it was like when we were kids,” Came Thomas’ usual southern twang down the line, “You know,” He says, like James had forgotten or hadn’t experienced his own miserable childhood existence for himself, “When you’d run a fever or seize every other day.”  
  
Ah.   
  
James remains silent as Thomas keeps talking, and there’s something sad but laughing in his tone, “I remember being so worried the first time you passed out, mid-conversation, that I threw up.”   
  
He had. James had come back to reality a little while later, confused as to why Thomas was acting like a wreck when it was himself who was actually ill. It’s moments like this that remind James of how far Thomas has really come. No longer was he the young and clueless child, with knees too unscarred to have ever truly played outside before, voice so faint everyone at first believed him mute. The kid who hid behind his hair instead of like a crown to accent his face. The child who would hide behind _James_ (on the few occasions he was out of bed) when his anxiety won out, so as to not have to speak with strangers.   
  
It’s different now. His Thomas has grown, mentally and physically, shooting up over six feet tall, whereas James seems to remain static at the same five feet four inches he used to hold over Thomas’ five when they were children. And while he can’t hide behind James anymore, his height acts as a deterrent to most looking to start a fight, and his personality toward those he isn’t close to does the rest for him.   
  
“Yes, and I’m fine now, Thomas. Are you sure there isn’t anything you can do?” He keeps his voice level, unaffected. Thomas sighs across the phone, and James longs to copy him, so he does.   
  
“Afraid not, Mads. Give Alexander time, he’ll sort himself out.” Is the response. James nods slowly, and mentally curses.   
  
“I’m not sure if time is something I’m able to lend. My patience is growing thin for his sensibilities. He doesn’t even let me breathe without examining me to ascertain my condition.” At this, Thomas hums, a low, considering sound, deciding something at James’ words.   
  
“Why don't you ask him about it?” At James’ scoff, Thomas continues swiftly enough, “As you mentioned, he doesn’t seem to do it to quite the same extent with anybody else,” Of course, because nobody else took quite as sick as James Madison was wont to do. It was his only talent, he mused, bitter. “So maybe your tendency for frequent bouts of illness is the reason for it. James, believe me when I say, the man’s been through more than he lets on.” He finished, vague but tone unwilling to offer more. With that, Thomas let out a rather impressive yawn and told James to speak with him in the morning.

He had been travelling back and forth between Central European and Standard Eastern time for a good few weeks, now, and it was taking a noticeable toll on him. James felt for him, he did, but poor sleep was something every college student became acquainted with at some point whilst pursuing their academic goals. As he hung up, James scanned the dimly lit room for some painkillers and his all important pencil case.

He could squeeze a few hours into the library if he planned this correctly. Write until his hand cramped, his scrawl becoming illegible even to his own eyes, before forcing his wrist to comply so that he could continue on a computer. Technology was something he never enjoyed, but a necessary aid when his own two hands failed. If he managed to finish this essay tonight...

He wouldn’t have to move from bed at all, tomorrow. A full day of rest sounded almost too good to be true, and it probably would turn out to be, but it was motivation enough to sneak out right now. So he did.

He arrived at the library at his own pace, and was content to spend the rest of the night finishing his assigned work in solitude, when of course Hamilton had to sit down beside him, laptop already open and typing. That was the last straw. Now, James wasn’t someone who shouted, but his jaw clenched, and he felt the familiar ache of stress warning to corrode him.

“Must you do this?” It came out more tired than he had intended. He’d actually been going for scathing, but it was late. He rubbed at his face as Hamilton jumped to explain, brimming with numerous words for his response. Too many for James to decipher at once.

“I’m just trying to help, you’re the one being difficult.”


End file.
